


Inspector G. Lestrade: Vampire Hunter-Hunter (Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Molly, R)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: .338 lapua magnum rounds, Blood, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, Vampire AU, Vampires, Werewolves, alternative universe, gay-dumb, lestraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaade!, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. In addition to being a DI at the Yard, Lestrade is part of an ancient vampire order responsible for hunting those who harm his kind. When he finds out that Sherlock Holmes, a fellow vampire, has unknowingly begun living with a vampire hunter, Lestrade makes it his mission to protect Sherlock from this threat at all costs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspector G. Lestrade: Vampire Hunter-Hunter (Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Molly, R)

It was night, and Inspector Lestrade had awoken to feed. His heart sang with bloodlust while his stomach churned with hunger. His feet also burned, but that was athlete's foot and had no bearing on this story. Vampires are immune to a lot of things, but not fungal infections. Write that down in your copybook now.  
  
The inspector dragged himself to the kitchen and chugged a cold 40-oz bloodpack from the fridge. He grimaced. Stale blood was no good. It was time to make a fresh kill.  
  
When he wasn’t solving crimes as a Scotland Yard night-shift detective, Lestrade had another, more sinister job; he was a member of an ancient and venerable order of vampires entrusted with annihilating those who dared hunt his vampire brethren. It had been nearly four-hundred years since Lestrade had taken his vampire oath, which had involved a lot of chanting and some homoerotic butt-touching that he didn't like to talk about. He took his work very seriously.  
  
Tonight’s hunt, however, would be a challenge. One of the vampires he worked with at the Yard--a surly young detective named Sherlock Holmes--had apparently gotten himself tangled up in the romantic sense with a vampire hunter who went by John Watson. The two lived together, but as far as Lestrade knew, neither had managed to figure out the other’s secret yet.  
  
Lestrade grabbed a couple more bloodpacks and inspected his rifle one last time. Hunters could be crafty and Lestrade wasn’t about to make any mistakes with this one. As much as he disliked Sherlock, he had a duty to all vampire-kind to take hunters down. Best practices dictated that vampires take special care to avoid harming fellow vampires on a mission whenever possible. Any collateral deaths would reflect poorly on him--he would have to play this one extra carefully.  
  
He packed his bag and deftly leapt out the window onto a neighboring roof. He could have gone out the door but it just didn’t feel right. He wished someone would come up with a way for vampires to transform into bats that allowed them to keep their clothes and gear with them. As it were, the whole bat-form thing wasn’t terribly useful, and he was consigned to making his way across rooftops. It took him quite some time--London was a big city and he couldn’t very well get into a cab with a rifle case slung over his shoulder. Plus, vampires are afraid of cars.  
  
When he reached his destination several hours later, he left most of his gear on the nearest rooftop and climbed down the side of the building. Vampires are actually not especially good at climbing; this was just something Lestrade liked to do in his spare time. Other vampires made fun of him for it.  
  
 _“Hey Spiderman,”_ they’d say. _“Aren’t you in the wrong mythological pantheon?”_  
  
In response Lestrade would usually point out that spiders drank blood and that there were plenty of vampires in comic books, and therefore their analogy was inherently flawed. This typically resulted in them calling him a nerd under their breath. Well, very quietly anyway; vampires don’t actually breathe.  
  
On the weekends Lestrade volunteered for the vampire anti-bullying initiative. He liked to think he was creating a positive force in the world, with the exception of all the people he killed for his job, and all the other people he killed for fun.  
  
Once he reached the street, he scampered to his target’s apartment building. Had he been writing this story he probably would have said that he slid silently in between the shadows like the spectre of death itself, but anybody could see he was scampering. Sorry dude. Just keepin’ it real.    
  
Lestrade climbed to the second story landing and peeked through the window. He saw John conversing with the vampire he loathed, yet was honor-bound to protect. He would have put his ear to the wall to listen, but vampires have superior hearing capabilities. He could have also turned into a bat, which is what most vampires might have done, but he felt uncomfortable being nude.  
  
“It’s foggy out,” he heard Sherlock say dramatically. “The night is young . . . and ominous.”  
  
“It _is_ pretty foreboding out there,” said John, forebodingly.  
  
“I’ve always . . . _identified_ with the night. With the darkness.” Sherlock’s voice was practically oozing suggestion. “One might even say I’m a creature of the night.”  
  
“What, like Batman?” asked John, puzzled.  
  
“No,” replied Sherlock. “Like, you know how I almost never leave the house in the daylight? Almost as if the very existence of sunlight was anathema to my being?"  
  
“Oh, right,” said John. “I barely notice because I’m out in the daylight all the time. That’s when my targets are most vulnerable.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Your targets as a professional bounty hunter, which is your profession.”  
  
“Ah, right, yes,” said John, holding up his hands to make air quotes. “A ‘bounty’ hunter. Yes. That‘s what I am.”  
  
“That must be exciting,” said Sherlock. “Stalking your prey, the thrill of the hunt, the visceral joy of sinking your teeth into their . . . arrest warrant. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”  
  
“Yes,” said John. “That’s exactly what I do, metaphorically.” He brought out a wooden stake and idly began sharpening it.  
  
Lestrade had heard enough. Idiots, both of them. He climbed down and headed back to the weapons cache atop the nearby building. He carefully unpacked his rifle and set up the bipod. His vampiric hearing was still more than adequate to pick up the continuing conversation between Sherlock and John, unfortunately.  
  
“ . . . no, I like these curtains.” Sherlock’s voice. “Blood red is my favorite color. I thought you knew that.”  
  
Lestrade checked that the internal magazine was loaded and rode the bolt home, chambering a round of .338 Lapua Magnum. The target was less than one hundred yards away, making it overkill, but good luck telling Lestrade that. .338 was what the world record holder used for the longest vampire-on-vampire-hunter confirmed kill, and Lestrade was damned if he was going to use anything less. Other vampires made fun of him for this, mostly while ripping mortals apart with their super-human strength and preternaturally fast reflexes that made them untouchable in hand-to-hand combat.  
  
“. . . well, my last  ‘bounty,’ as it were, had been terrorizing an Eastern European village.” John’s voice now. “I infiltrated his castle and, after navigating through his deadly labyrinth of traps, planted a stake in his vile black heart . . .”  
  
Lestrade licked his finger and held it up above his head. He noted a very slight breeze--probably not worth correcting for at this distance. He dialed in one notch on the windage deal of his scope anyway, just in case.  
  
John again. “Say, what is that you’re drinking? I didn’t know we had any V8. Did you run to the store?”  
  
Lestrade peered through the scope and carefully positioned the rifle so that John was in the center of the crosshairs.  
  
John was sitting down. This would be child’s play.  
  
Lestrade brought his finger to the trigger and gently began to squeeze.  
  
“LESTRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!” cried a high-pitched voice just as the trigger broke. His vampiric hearing amplified the shrill yell to the point of pain. The shot went wide, smashing into Sherlock’s wall a foot from John’s head. Incidentally, it also went through into the next apartment and shattered a goldfish bowl, leading the neighbors to blame the cat--who had a history of misbehaving--and take the poor feline to the humane society, sending their small child into a deep, cat-less depression that would eventually culminate in sadomasochistic tendencies, giving rise to one of London’s worst serial killers of the 21st century.  
  
Of course, Lestrade didn’t know this, nor would he have cared had he known. He let go of the rifle and turned to face the source of the noise. Molly, a lab tech at the Yard, was running toward him from across the rooftop, stark naked.  
  
Molly pretended not to see the rifle and Lestrade pretended not to see her genitalia.  
  
“Lestrade!” she gushed, without regard to her nude state. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”  
  
“Goddamnit Molly, what the hell?” Lestrade was pissed. Who knew when he’d get a shot like that again?  
  
“Oh, I was just, well, you know. There's a full moon tonight.” She winked at him. Molly looked good naked, her body all curvey-shaped with breasts. Lestrade wasn’t good at describing things.  
   
“I was unaware,” said Lestrade, voice flat. His vampiricly-enhanced hearing picked up strands of conversation from the nearby apartment.  
  
“Holy fuck, Sherlock,” yelled John. “Someone shot at us!”  
   
“Judging by the bullet trajectory, the culprit should be close by,” deduced Sherlock.  
  
Lestrade, also a detective, deduced that it was time to get the hell out of there.  
   
“Sometimes,” Molly continued, oblivious to the danger at hand because she wasn’t a vampire, “Sometimes I just get these urges to run free, as if the bonds of civilization can’t contain me, y’know? Like, running wild and free, uncontained and unconstrained by the chains of civility?”  
   
Lestrade ignored her and frantically packed up his rifle.  
  
Molly rambled on.  
  
“It’s like, I’m only free when I give into the terrible rage at my very core and revel in the moonlight like a vicious beast, you know?”  
  
“Cool,” said Lestrade, as he finished packing his gear. “See you soon, maybe. Or something.”  
  
He jumped off the roof and melded into the night.  
  
 _How could things have gone so wrong?_ He thought as he raced home. _That fool girl, that’s what. What the hell was she doing outside so late, naked of all things?_ Lestrade didn’t have time to dwell on the vagaries of the female mind; his mission had been compromised and he had to think of a backup plan, fast.  
  
He still made time to toss one off that night, though. A man has needs.

* * *

Evening came once again and Lestrade woke up once more. He’d spent the remainder of the previous night planning his next move obsessively. He yawned and dumped some more blood in his coffee. He thought he had a pretty good plan. It wasn’t exactly foolproof, but he was a four-hundred-year-old murder machine; if he couldn’t pull it off, who could?  
  
He packed his bag and headed off to his real job at the Yard. The emergence of a new lead suspect for a recent homicide case required he take a second look at some evidence the police had found in the victim’s car.  
  
Of course, Molly was the first person he ran into when he arrived.  
  
“Oh, hi Inspector,” she said cheerfully. “Crazy night yesterday, am I right?”  
  
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he said awkwardly. He didn’t know what she’d been doing out there, but he didn’t want to draw attention to his activities. “How are things going?”  
  
“Pretty well,” said Molly, setting down her tray of evidence. “At least no one’s trying to kill me. Did you hear? Someone shot at Sherlock’s apartment last night.”  
  
“I hadn’t heard that,” said Lestrade, hoping she wouldn’t realize how close they were to Sherlock’s apartment the night before, or remember that he had had a sniper rifle with him.  
  
“Crazy world, huh?” she said. “Hey, would you move this onto the microscope for me?” She gestured at a small piece of jewelry on the evidence tray. “I think it might be silver.”  
  
“Sure,” said Lestrade absently. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about how much shit he could be in if Molly registered what he’d been doing last night. She didn’t seem to have made the connection, but he might have to eliminate her just to be sure.  
  
He placed the ring on the evidence tray.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, bending over to look at it. Lestrade watched her fiddle with the dials. Her nails were long and unpainted, and came to sharp points at the end. Weird. He wondered if she knew how hairy her hands were for a woman. The only other hirsute person he knew was his mother, who had stopped shaving her legs years ago. He would still hit it, though. Molly, not his mother. That would be incest. Mother-son incest is illegal in Scotland, England, and Wales, and is punishable by up to two years’ imprisonment. Write that down in your copybook now.  
   
Lestrade’s focus shifted as his supernatural hearing picked up the sound of two sets of footsteps entering through the main door. Molly went back to her lab tests.  
   
“It’s kind of surreal,” said John’s voice. “I live a life of danger, hunting bloodthirsty predators who prowl the night with supernatural agility, but I’ve never actually been shot at before. Oh, except when I was in Afghanistan. People shot at me there all the time.”  
   
“I know,” replied Sherlock’s voice. “In all my time stalking the night as a, uh, detective, I’ve come to view regular people as simple animals, fit only for consump-uh, questioning. Never have I felt threatened by the machinations of mere mortals.”  
  
Lestrade followed them silently. He had to split them up before they went into the restroom together and did gay things that they’d later deny when caught. He shuddered and cursed his diabolical undead hearing. The things he’d heard them do in there. For fuck’s sake, they lived together--why couldn’t they just have sex in their apartment?  
  
Lestrade turned the corner precisely as planned and bumped into John, who was wearing a green jumper with a snowman on it. It was July.  
  
“Glad I ran into you,” Lestrade said. “Someone left you an unmarked package in the creepy alleyway behind the police station. It’s something about some sort of eternal order of the vigilant dawn.”  
   
“Oh!” exclaimed John. “I mean, uh, I wonder what that could be? I had better check it out immediately.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t appear to be suspicious because when it came to John, Sherlock was gay-dumb, which despite popular belief is not when one is oblivious to another's homosexuality, but is rather just another way of saying someone is both gay and dumb. Lestrade had been counting on that.  
   
“Okay,” Sherlock said, making eye contact with John. “I’ll meet you in 'our spot' when you’re finished.”  
  
“Uh, right,” said John, his cheeks reddening. “I’m sure this won’t take long.”  
   
Lestrade hurried down the corridor, then broke into a run. He burst through the door and made it to the workstation he’d set up earlier. The rifle and decoy package were ready. He got into position. John came into view a few seconds later.  
   
“Gotcha,” whispered Lestrade under the breath he didn’t have.  
   
He squeezed the trigger.  
  
The gun clicked. Nothing happened.  
  
“This is just a box of rocks,” said John from the alleyway, narratively. “Not secret vampire hunter instructions or gear or anything!” He shrugged, disappointed, and headed back inside.  
   
Lestrade cursed to himself and frantically worked the bolt. Neither case nor round popped out of the chamber; instead appeared a small, rolled note. Fingers tremblingly, he unrolled the message and began to read.  
  
“Gotcha,” it said. Lestrade frowned. What did it mean?  
  
Suddenly he felt pain blossom in his chest. He looked down, dropping the scrap of paper. A wooden stake protruded from where his heart should have been. He reached up to grasp it feebly but could gain no purchase. The stake was slick with blood. He could sense his vampiric strength ebbing.  
   
Lestrade looked up. A man stood beside him, silhouetted by the moon.  
  
The figure tipped his hat.  
  
“James Moriarty,” the man said. “Professional hunter of vampire hunter-hunters. You may have heard of me.”  
   
As Lestrade’s consciousness faded to black and his body turned to dust, the last thing he heard with his waning vampiric hearing was the sound of a socially-challenged vampire detective and an incompetent vampire hunter having gay sex in a public restroom.


End file.
